The Sticking Place
by Once Beautiful and Brave
Summary: What happens when frightening possibilities become life-changing realities? Twenty-three year old Vincent is about to find out. Revised and updated April 15, 2012.
1. Chapter 1

Author's notes: This bulk of this tale takes place approximately ten years before we were introduced to Vincent. The beginning segment of this chapter, which serves to set up the story that follows, includes Diana. Having said that, all but those severely allergic to 3S should be able to read it without squirming. If you feel you must, you can skip to the second segment and take up the story there ... but I'd be happier if you just read the whole thing. All you really need to know is that this is a story about the first time Vincent takes a life.

This story contains adult language.

The Sticking Place

By Lydia Bowe

He found Diana at her desk and on the telephone when he came down the stairs from the roof and into her loft. She glanced up as he walked in and Vincent immediately took note of her red-rimmed eyes and the bright patches of color on her cheeks. She'd been crying. Perhaps that was why he'd felt suddenly compelled to come here tonight. It would explain the gossamer thread of disquiet and sorrow he'd felt but hadn't been able to attribute to any of his family Below.

"Yeah, Suze, I know," Diana was saying. "I appreciate it. I guess you just caught me on a bad night, that's all … yeah, I will … you, too. Oh, and give Alex my love, huh? And Terrible Ted? … Okay, later." She gently placed the receiver in its cradle and rubbed her eyes with fingertips before giving him another quick look. He felt her discomfort at being discovered in moment of weakness and chose to disregard it.

"What can I do?"

She jerked a sad, wry grin and came around the corner of the desk, leaning a hip against it and folding her arms across her chest. "Take me out and get me drunk? Maybe the Village or Harlem? Someplace dark and smoky, with a blues trio. And lots of whiskey. Hell, we'll just buy a bottle. Then we can come back here and you can hold my hair outta the way while I pray to the porcelain gods and swear I'll never drink again. How 'bout it?"

Since they both knew that was unlikely to happen, he said nothing. Slipping out of his cloak, he tossed it on the armchair and turned back to face her.

"Right," she said, flipping up a hand in acknowledgement. "So that's out of the question, yeah? In that case, I guess maybe a hug would be okay."

That, he could do. So he opened his arms and she stepped into them. She let herself be held but didn't return the embrace. Vincent knew her well enough not to take umbrage. Sometimes Diana simply couldn't reciprocate.

"Do you want to tell me?" he asked after a minute.

And even though she shook her head as she stepped away, she said, "Had a visitor a while ago. Lou Hornsby. My old partner. Actually, my first partner. They teamed me up with him as soon as I got out of the academy. Within a year I was off the streets, off the force, and back in school. That's when I got my psych degree; when I went back the second time."

Diana moved to the arm chair and settled there, first shoving his cloak out of the way and then immediately pulling it back into her lap. She began to fidget with the laces on the rolled shoulder of the open right sleeve. "Got bumped straight to Homicide when I came back. Back-to-back degrees gets you a leg up, I suppose. I was asked to join the 210 a couple years later and got my shield. Youngest detective in the unit. Guess there's something to be said for graduating high school at sixteen. Gives you a couple year's head start on everybody else. You know why I left the force, that first time?" she asked suddenly, looking up at him with eyes that stung him with their intensity. He shook his head.

"I shot an eighteen year old in the head. Higher than a kite on something; PCP, I think it was - I don't remember now. Domestic call. By the time Lou and I got there, he'd already killed his girlfriend's mother; had a hold of his baby's momma and a gun to her head. The baby, maybe nine months old, sitting in the middle of the living room floor, screaming his little head off. Lou was trying to talk this kid down, but I knew it was gonna end bad; I could feel it. He wasn't watching me: too busy eyeballing Lou. You'd have to see him, he's a big sonofabitch. I saw the kid take a breath and tighten his finger on the trigger. I had the shot. So I took it. Right through his left temple."

"Diana."

"I came out of it in the clear. They ruled it as justified. But it still shook me pretty bad. Bad enough to turn in my resignation and go back to school. And I still ended up back on the force. Guess it's in my blood, just like Pop's. I don't regret shooting the kid: he would've killed that girl, too, and maybe his son. I just hate that it had to happen that way." Diana scrubbed her face and kept it covered with her hands long enough that Vincent found himself settling on a corner of the couch to wait her out. He gave her his stillness: a silence filled with attention and concern, and hoped she would be able to feel it, past her pain.

"So, anyway," she finally went on, letting her hands fall away from her face, "Lou came by earlier to let me know the girlfriend of the guy I shot was found dead by their kid yesterday. Came home from school and found her in the bathroom, needle still stuck in of her arm. She had a pretty rough time of it, too, after the shooting. Lou wanted to be the one to tell me. Didn't want me to hear it from anybody else. So, eight years ago, I made this boy half an orphan. I guess I kind of had a part in finishing the job yesterday."

"Diana, you mustn't think that." She gave no response and he wasn't sure she'd even heard him. He had the sense she'd be talking whether he was there or not. Her memories had become a poison she needed to purge before it made her any sicker.

"Then Sue – my sister? – just called. Said she had a feeling something was wrong. She's got a touch of the shine, too, you know? And of course she got me crying. I hate that. But that's not even the worst part. You know what is – what I still can't get over?" Diana finally pulled her attention away from the floor and focused on him again. "It's the way my mom looked at me when she found out what happened, what I'd done. It was right around the time she started to get really sick, before they found the cancer. She looked at me differently after that, Vincent, like she wasn't sure who I was anymore. I don't think I knew, either - not then. She never looked at me the same way again. And that's the worst part."

She levered up out of the chair and moved toward the kitchen, her motions jerky, tense. He followed her with his eyes, looking over his shoulder as she abruptly turned and propped an arm on the windowsill. She stared out the grimy window and into the city. He turned back and found his attention drawn to her work area and the floor to ceiling bookcases on the southern wall of the loft, crammed with books and music and the eclectic collection of objects that spoke of the woman Diana was.

"I know what it's like," he said after a while, breaking the fragile silence. "I know what it is to have loved ones look at you differently. I, too, have experienced that moment … when everything changes. When you realize what you're truly capable of."

He was aware her gaze had shifted from the window to him. Vincent glanced over long enough to meet that gaze and then turned back the way he'd been.

"Yeah," she said after a minute. "I bet you have. I never told anybody that: about my mom. Not until just now." Diana pushed away from the window and came back, dropping heavily onto the other end of the couch and pulling her legs up tight against her chest. He noticed the very tip of the smallest toe on her right foot peeking out through a tiny split in the seam of her sock. He was surprised - unexpectedly and pleasantly so - to see the nail painted a vivid red.

"So I guess that makes you my confessor," Diana was saying, as she finished settling into the corner. "You're almost as good as a priest, right?"

"Please," he responded, offering a gentle smile in return for the teasing that came even in the midst of her sorrow. "I've neither the justification nor the right to hear anyone's confession. I've too many sins of my own. And, despite what you might think, I've never aspired to live a life bereft of the more common pleasures denied those in the priesthood."

"Oh, really? Do tell," Diana encouraged. He was glad to see a familiar sparkle returning to her eyes. He often wished he could dispel his demons as quickly as she. He knew he tended to brood and lose himself in melancholy instead. He found Diana's easy resilience a pleasant counterpoint to his solemnity.

"Perhaps it might be better to share my experience with you," he decided. "So you won't feel quite as isolated, as … alone, as you do now. I would like to tell you how it was for me, if you'd like to hear it."

"Vincent, I'd gladly sit here all night and do nothing but listen to you talk; you know that." This came as she poked him in the thigh with her foot before folding up tight again, wrapping her arms around her bent legs.

"In my case," he began, shifting to a more comfortable position so he didn't have to turn to see her, "it was Cullen who heard my confession. I think perhaps because he'd not been a part of us for long, and so would ask of me the questions others Below wouldn't. For me, it happened late one spring, the year I turned twenty-three."

**….**

"Will you get your goddam hands out of the way so I can see what I'm doing?"

"Make up your mind, Winslow! We can't keep jacking this fucker and do that at the same time!"

Vincent glanced behind him at eight year old Mouse, who had firmly clamped his hands over his ears and was looking guilty simply for hearing words he knew he was forbidden to use.

"Gentleman," he addressed the small group of men gathered around the large, rapidly failing pump, "may I remind you there is a child present?"

"Yeah, one who shouldn't be here," Winslow shot over his shoulder. "Why he still following you around everywhere you go? Been almost two years, now. He should be with the other kids, not down here in this muck with us."

He couldn't argue against the last. This was no place for a child - nor for anyone, really, not now. The spring rains had been especially heavy, with the Lower Ripley branches in constant threat of being flooded. They'd been nursing the old pump for months now and, as evidenced by the nearly ankle-deep, cold and muddy water they stood in, it was soon to give up its ghost. The work crew trying to repair the motor was drenched, cold, and wholly cranky. Tempers had increasingly flared in just the few minutes he and Mouse had been there, sent by Father to obtain a progress report.

"Is there any more that can be done?" he asked Cullen and Robert, choosing to ignore Winslow's surly remarks.

"Maybe it's not the motor? I don't know." Cullen shrugged and gave a snap of his head, flinging droplets of water from his short-cropped hair onto already wet surfaces. "Damn thing is, can't figure out why the pump's bogging down. Makes no sense. The motor's cranking like it should be."

Mouse began tugging at the sleeve of his cloak.

"Shall I have Pascal send word to our Helpers? I know Sal has experience with mechanics." Derrick, husband to Olivia and master of all things with moving parts, had died from a fall off the West Serpentine the previous September. Since then the community had been relying on the combined knowledge of several of the men, chiefly Winslow, when a problem such as this would arise. "Perhaps a clean pair of eyes can see something that might've been missed." Off the black man's unhappy scowl, he quickly added, "In what I'm certain was a most thorough inspection."

"Can't hurt," Robert said, slowly unfolding from his crouch next to the pump and groaning as he bowed his back to ease tired muscles. "I think we've run out of ideas."

Another glance at Winslow showed a sullen, resigned expression. Cullen gave another shrug just as the tugging at his sleeve grew more urgent. He laid his hand on the boy's head and braced against the incoming waves of anxiousness, excitement, and ever-present curiosity. "What is it, Mouse?"

The boy raised wide blue eyes at him and screwed up his face, pulling him away from the others with a strength uncommon in a child his age. He allowed himself to be led away a small distance, cognizant that Mouse still wasn't comfortable speaking around most people – especially in groups.

The child's continuing reticence was an issue that would have to be addressed sooner rather than later. Though he had certainly blossomed in the two years since Vincent had volunteered to shoulder the task of hunting down what'd been thought to be a very resourceful rodent and had turned out to be a child instead, Mouse was, in many ways, still adrift in his own world.

Vincent knew the boy was sharply intelligent (the fact he'd survived on his own for as long as he had and at such a tender age was proof of that) but he lacked the discipline necessary to sit through daily lessons with children his own age, or to tackle the repetition required to learn such basics as reading and writing, or even proper speech. He had known almost from the beginning that Mouse was comfortable only with the extremes and had no patience for nuances of any sort; what he considered fillers: stepping stones from one point to another. His quick mind made leaps that required no in-betweens, whether it be words or the expression of ideas. But Vincent was certain, given enough time and attention, Mouse would discover his special talents and, once that happened, he would be set on the path to becoming all that he was meant to be.

"Not go-go," Mouse was whispering urgently as Vincent squatted down in front of him. He squeezed his eyes shut and scrubbed an arm under his nose. "Not go-go," he repeated and then mimicked, with astonishing accuracy, the sound of the struggling machine several yards behind them. "It's good. Better than good. In, out. Up, down. Those. No good. You know, Vincent?"

"No, I'm sorry, Mouse, I don't know what you mean. Can you use the name?"

That got him a sour looking expression as Mouse's features twisted in frustration. Then he glanced behind him and pointed at the pipes running the length of the tunnel. "Like those. But not. Stuff inside. Loose. No good. You know: in, out, up, down."

"The cylinders?" he asked with dawning realization.

Mouse reached and laid his palm against Vincent's cheek, his face brightening with a wide smile. "See? Vincent knows. Mouse, too. Needs new stuff."

"But how could you know?" He didn't doubt him, not for a second. He was simply awestruck by the implications.

"Look, look, look. Poke around. Take apart. No good. Have to listen." Mouse raised his bundled arms and pointed at the sides of his head. "Ears better than eyes, sometimes."

He impulsively gathered the child in his arms and held him only as long as he would allow the contact. "You are a treasure," he told him as Mouse wiggled free. "I think we must find Father straight away and share with him what a smart boy you are."

"Okay, good! Okay, fine!"

He stood and offered a hand that was swiftly taken by Mouse's much smaller one. Then he turned them back toward the men. "Winslow?"

"What? What the hell d'you want? We're trying to work here."

"Have you checked the seals in the hydraulic cylinders?"

As one, the three men grouped around the pump exchanged looks. Then Winslow glared back at him. His expression was answer enough.

"Might I suggest you check them before we ask Sal to make the trip down here? If it's the seals, I know Derrick kept several spare sets in his workshop. I'll have them collected and brought to you."

He waited a moment or two for Winslow's terse nod and, once received, turned back the way he and Mouse had come, studiously ignoring the grumbled mutterings coming from behind him.

"What the hell does that kid know about hydraulics, anyway? And Vincent: if it ain't something he read in one of those goddam books of his, he don't know it, either. All right, what're you two waiting for? Let's get these cylinders tore down!"

**….**

He nearly choked on his soup when Cullen suddenly appeared at his side in the Commons that evening, plopping down beside him on the bench. He'd been lost in his thoughts, assembling a lesson plan for the reading group he'd recently taken over for Father.

"You always eat supper so late? Or do you just not like crowds?"

Vincent took in Cullen's easy smile but still was made uncomfortable by the blunt inquiry. He often ate later than the rest of the community, that was true - or he would share supper with Father in the study, or alone in his chamber, usually with a book in one hand. He didn't like eating in front of others. The furtive glances only served to remind him of his differences: of his fanged mouth and cleft lip and the hands that remained furred and clawed, no matter how properly they might hold a knife and fork.

"The kid was right," Cullen went on, his toothy grin still in place. "The damn seals were shot. How'd he know that? It _was_ Mouse who figured it out, wasn't it, not you?"

He set down his spoon and discreetly wiped his mouth on a cloth napkin. "Yes, he suggested they might need replaced." He was relieved Cullen's initial query seemed to have been rhetorical and the subject had changed. "The pump is working, then?"

"Good as new."

"Has Father been told?"

"First on the list. You're the second. Thought you might want to tell Mouse yourself. "

Cullen suddenly began slapping the tabletop where they sat, his hands drumming out a series of random beats before they went as quickly still. Vincent sensed the thread of nervous energy that'd provoked the outburst and absently marked it as part of Cullen's personality. Though the man sitting beside him, older by almost a decade, had been welcomed into the community over a year ago, Vincent still didn't know him well. And he was satisfied, for now, that it was so.

He didn't think he would describe himself as aloof, he thought, not precisely. Simply … cautious. There'd been so many adults accepted into the community over the last five years: Kanin had been first. Joshua and his wife, Marlene. Ezra and Trey. Then William - and Cullen, shortly after that. Good people, all, but in many ways still strangers to him – in ways none of the children brought there had ever been.

Adults were harder to read and had more armor shielding them, deeper disappointments and less wonder, than did children. And it was longer in coming, the time when he could pass them by in the tunnels or converse with them at gatherings and not feel their keen awareness of how different he was. Vincent much preferred to be the observer rather than the observed.

"Where is he, anyway?" Cullen was asking, his head swiveling this way and that.

"I can't say. Despite what Winslow thinks, Mouse is very independent and not always to be found at my side."

For some reason, that gained him Cullen's sharper attention. He suppressed the urge to turn away and instead studied his soup. It hadn't exactly been hot when he'd ladled it out of the enormous stock pot in the kitchen, and would surely be cold by the time Cullen left him in peace. He sighed unhappily.

"Ask you something?"

There was no good reason to refuse the man's request. Vincent's shoulders lifted slightly, the gesture neither encouragement nor rebuke.

"You ever get mad?"

He startled them both by abruptly twisting to lock eyes with Cullen. "What do you mean?" he asked, rather more curtly than he'd intended.

"I mean," Cullen responded carefully, spreading uplifted, open hands, "do you ever get mad? I've heard the way Winslow talks to you, for instance. And during common meetings, if folks get pissed about something and don't have the guts to take on Father, they blast you instead, just for backing him. Doesn't that ever make you mad? I'm asking 'cause I would've been more than happy to give Winslow the what-for this afternoon, the way he snapped at you. Why do you let him talk to you like that?"

"It is merely his way, Cullen. I take no offense because none is meant."

"Yeah, you seem to take no offense a lot. That's gotta eat at you after a while."

"I must ask: why the sudden interest in my temperament?" That got him a studious look that lasted long enough to make him even more uncomfortable than he already was.

"Guess I'm still trying to figure you out, is all."

Vincent had a clear sense of Cullen, then, and it was as he'd said: a simple, guileless curiosity. He couldn't help asking, "And what conclusions have you reached?"

_Will he dare say it?_ Vincent wondered. _Which of my many differences will he choose to point out? What does he see when he looks at me?_

So he was caught completely off-guard when Cullen said, "You got a good heart, Vincent. And I think you've gotten it stomped on a time or two because of that. From what I've seen, you're so wrapped up in being and doing what you think people expect of you that you're not even sure who you are or what it is _you_ want - or if you even have the right to want it. You're strung so tight I figure you've forgotten how to have fun, which is a shame for somebody your age. And I think you'd be a damn sight happier strolling through these tunnels with a pretty girl on your arm instead of towing around a snot-nosed kid who looks to be smarter than the rest of us, combined."

Cullen got to his feet then and delivered a pat and a squeeze to his shoulder. Leaning in close and smiling conspiratorially, he added, "And last but not least, I'm pretty sure the only inhuman thing about you, my friend, is that rigid self-control of yours. I'll let you get back to your supper."

Vincent bemusedly watched him walk away. Shaking his head, he returned to his meal, spooning up and swallowing the tepid soup without tasting it, his thoughts focused inward and on Cullen's proclamations.

**….**


	2. Chapter 2

The Sticking Place, Chapter Two

By Lydia Bower

A/N: It's a short one, but it seemed a good place to end it. Comments are always welcome.

Two days passed. Two days in which Vincent spent his waking hours in a sort of fog, so wrapped up in dissecting Cullen's frank assessment of him that he could focus on nothing else. The worst part was that he hadn't the least idea why it affected him so. He just knew it did. So he argued counterpoints with himself and had to be coaxed by his students to get through classes, so deep was his distraction. Simply calling his name as he moved through the tunnels wasn't enough to get his attention: one had to reach and touch him, which generally startled both parties, as he would invariably flinch and jerk away at the contact. Awkward apologies would follow as he tried to focus on whatever matter had caused the interruption of his musings. Old Sam banished him from his work assignment at the newest excavation, loudly proclaiming he wasn't to return until he'd found his senses again.

And Father? Father simply wrote off his pensiveness as an acute case of spring restlessness and matter-of-factly prescribed a late-night trip Above and a brisk stroll in the park. Father: suggesting, even encouraging, that he go Above! It was such unexpected advice that Vincent burst out laughing, earning him a sincere if slightly rueful face in return.

Despite the cause of his abstraction, he was still was mildly surprised to find himself standing outside the doorway of Cullen's workshop late in the evening of the second day. He couldn't remember deciding to go there but, having arrived, he knew why. He heard Cullen whistling some unfamiliar tune with great enthusiasm, and the quiet, repetitive whir of the wood lathe as it was spun by hand. Vincent could smell the fresh tang of the oak being peeled, layer by thin layer, into something beautiful and lasting and necessary. He came through the doorway haltingly; mind made up, but courage still somewhat lacking.

"Cullen?"

"Oh, hey, Vincent, what's up?" The community's chief carpenter turned away from the lathe and then looked down and started brushing the sawdust from the front of his sweater.

"May I have a word … if you're not too busy?"

"Sure. Have a seat."

"No … thank you. This won't take long."

Cullen settled on a high stool, elbow propped on the work table beside him, an expectant look on his face. Vincent opened his mouth and almost immediately shut it. And then, much to his horror, he did it again. The harder he grasped for the proper words, the more they seemed to elude him. And his embarrassment at being struck mute was matched by the knowledge he likely looked absurd; like some sort of fish, mouth opening and closing with nothing to show for it, gasping for something more than air.

"Cat got your tongue?"

His heart gave a great thud in his chest and he stared in astonishment at Cullen, receiving an impudent wink in return. "You know, not everybody down here can read minds like you do – or whatever it is you do. You're gonna have to get us started."

Vincent began to turn away, mumbling, "This was a mistake. I shouldn't … I shouldn't have come here. Forgive me for disturbing you."

"Really got to you, didn't it? What I said the other night."

The question stopped him in his tracks. He slowly turned back. "Yes."

Cullen's expression was placid, his brow slightly raised over friendly eyes. Vincent couldn't feel past his own emotions to know anything besides that.

"It is because I was wrong? Or because I was right?"

Vincent frowned in vague dismay. "Both … actually."

"So you here to set me straight? Gimme a piece of your mind? Take a shot at me, maybe?"

"No! I would never –" He stopped short his protest when he noticed the upturned corners of Cullen mouth. "Why are doing this?"

The question required no explanation, for Cullen quickly responded, "Doing what? Not taking you so seriously, like everybody else does? Daring to tease you a little, give you a jab or two, try to get you to come out of that shell of yours?"

"But why – why now? And, and why," he stuttered, "why do you even care? What consequence is it to you, the way I choose to conduct myself?"

"If I didn't know better, I'd say you were getting irritated with me."

"Is that what this is about?" he shot back, proving the truth of the claim. "Then you have your answer, don't you? Yes, I get angry, Cullen. But I can't allow myself to feel that anger. Nor any strong emotion. Because when I do …"

He didn't dare finish the thought. He was amazed enough at what he'd already said. And keenly aware of his increased heartbeat; the tingling sparks of heat shooting along acutely sensitive nerves, the heavy pulse of the blood through his veins, his focus trained entirely on the clarity of his desires: those moments when he felt most alive. They were also the times that could be most dangerous - not for him, but for those around him. Because it was his lack of control, before, that had caused him to do things that must never be allowed to happen again. Not after Devin. And Lisa...

"Did'ya ever get soda down here, when you were a kid? You know, Coca-Cola, root beer, anything like that?"

Pulled from his somber memories of a lithe, beautiful creature dancing across the vast expanse of the Great Hall and into his arms, all softness and warmth and wrapped in spicy, enticing aromas, and the moment suddenly turning nightmarish as she twisted away in alarm and pain, Vincent found himself staring dumbly at Cullen and his nonsensical question.

"You ever shake it up before you opened it? Don't tell me you didn't, 'cause I won't believe you. All kids do it. And more than a few adults, especially around holidays or weddings and the like, when you got a built-in excuse to spray beer or champagne all over somebody. Get drenched with it, eyes burning, laughing to beat all." Cullen's face softened and he smiled at what were clearly fond memories before turning his attention back to Vincent. "You're that bottle of soda. The one that's been shook up real good. All that pressure that's building? It's gonna pop eventually. It's got to: it's pure physics."

Vincent had no response. Instead he found himself waiting expectantly for whatever Cullen might say next.

"I've seen it. Selling door-to-door you start to get real good at reading people. And you learn to do it fast. Got to where I could see it in under a minute, just as plain as I could read indifference or interest in their faces … the way they held themselves. All that shit building up inside, filling up all the nooks and crannies, nowhere left to go. Just about boiling over with it. It took me longer with you. And not just," Cullen gave a sharp head-to-toe sweep of his hand down Vincent's length, acknowledging the obvious without any sort of politeness as he continued, "because of the way you look. Most folks, they get loud with it. Yelling, threatening to call the cops, raising a fist in my face. All because I had the nerve to come knock on their door. But there's some, and I've only seen a few myself, who get quiet instead. You're one of the quiet ones, my friend. You're real quiet. And that scares me."

He had, while listening to Cullen, slowly retreated from his spot at the work table, unaware he was even doing so. His back was at the edge of the doorway when Cullen's eyes shifted and pinned him against the wall just as surely as an iron spike would have. "So tell me," he asked, circling back to his earlier question. "Am I wrong, or am I right?"

Vincent hung his head, unwilling to challenge the look in Cullen's eyes. He lifted his hands and saw that they were fisted. And now he could feel the sharp bite of his claws against his palms.

"It has," he finally began haltingly, despairingly, "become … more difficult … of late." He forced himself to raise his eyes and look steadily at the older man. "I am of no danger to you, Cullen, nor to anyone Below. You are my family, this is my home, and no harm will come to anyone here so long as I can prevent it. But I fear –"

He couldn't finish the thought. He was ashamed and deeply perturbed at himself for almost admitting something aloud he'd hardly even found the courage to express in his journals. And he could still remember so vividly those dark nights, and the dreams, after Lisa had been sent Above. After he'd hurt her. The harness, with its hated straps and chains; the struggles to break free; the unearthly howls that'd scoured his throat and rung in merciless echoes in his head. And that mustn't ever happen again.

"Hey! Earth to Vincent; come in, Vincent."

He snapped back to the present and found Cullen watching him, concern written in his features.

"Don't zone out on me like that. Makes me nervous."

His first instinct was to go, not wanting to cause the man any further distress on his behalf, or to leave himself open for more uncomfortable assessments – or, likewise, confessions. He turned into the doorway just as Cullen asked, "So what do you like to do? I mean, aside from reading and chess and teaching classes: all that high and lofty thinking. When you remember you're only twenty-three and you're not your old man. What do you like to do, what are you really good at?"

Vincent caught himself on the edge of a self-effacing smile at Cullen's gentle jab and wondered if he was being purposefully inconsistent or if it was simply in his nature to bounce around so, from one unrelated subject to another. It occurred to him that, uncomfortable as he was being made to feel, part of him found Cullen's forthrightness refreshingly honest and appealing. He realized he was in danger of becoming fond of him.

"I like to run," he offered after a brief silence. "To swim, especially under the Falls, late at night, when all is quiet." He caught Cullen's sly grin, both of them aware that was against Father's strict rules. The strong undertow and sharp rocks at the waterfall's edges made the area dangerous for anyone, even someone of his enormous strength, of which only Winslow could be said to be his equal. "But I think I like climbing, best of all. And being in the park. The nights when the sky is clear and the lights of the city burn so brightly; the stars …"

"Where do you climb?"

"Here. Below. There are several dry caverns with very high walls, and small ledges or depressions in the rock, where one can place one's hands and feet and ascend. It isn't easy, but no discipline worth learning is easy. And 'Man must be disciplined, for he is by nature raw and wild.'"

"That original?" Cullen asked breezily.

"No, it is Immanuel Kant. He was a German philosopher. He posited that one ought to conduct oneself autonomously, free of the dictates of any external authority. Father and I both disagree on that point, but there are many others on which our philosophies converge. What?"

Cullen was chuckling. "You really are something."

That gave him pause. "Yes. Something," he echoed.

"Father know about any of this stuff going on with you? Not the rock climbing or the swimming, the rest of it?"

"I don't want to worry him. He has more urgent matters to attend to"

"He might see it differently. It's plain as day how much he loves you."

"And I love him. When – no, if – it becomes a great enough concern, I'll speak to him. Father trusts me to keep my own counsel concerning certain matters, until it is no longer wise to do so."

"It can't always be easy: talking to him about some of it. I remember being your age and ducking my old man when he'd want to sit down and have a 'talk.'"

"Father and I have always been honest with each other. That will never change."

"And that's a good thing. I'm just saying … if there's ever a time you want to talk to somebody, somebody who's not Father, I'm your man."

"Thank you, Cullen, I appreciate that. But I doubt it will be necessary."

"Never say never."

"Yes. Well, I should go, leave you to your work." Vincent stopped and turned back. "Thank you."

"Ever thought about doing any climbing Above?"

Vincent found himself instantly intrigued. "What do you mean?"

"C'mon, take a look at some of the buildings around the park. Perfect for climbing. Then you could perch yourself up there on a roof like a pigeon and see the whole city, all laid out in front of you. Of course you'd have to be sure you did your climbing on the alley side, where nobody would spot you. Father'd have a cow if he picked up a paper and saw a picture of you scaling a building like some goddam furry Spiderman." Cullen yelped with laughter. "I'd pay to see that."

The image forced a chuckle from Vincent before he clamped down on his mirth and said very seriously, "It would be a dangerous thing to attempt, Cullen. One would have to be a highly skilled climber."

"Probably wouldn't hurt to have a bit of wanderlust thrown in there, too. Maybe some nervous energy needing an outlet. Something different but not too safe, either, if you know what I mean."

"Yes," he responded after a very long, thoughtful moment. "I'm sure I know exactly what you mean. Good night, Cullen. Be well."

"And you, my friend. Don't be a stranger."

By the time Vincent reached his chamber and was preparing for bed, he had several buildings already in mind and had decided the following evening would be a perfect one for narrowing down his options. After all, Father _had_ advised a late-night trip Above.

**….**


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Another short one, but with the wicked crud I was home sick in bed fighting all this week, I consider it a pretty fair accomplishment. I've taken certain liberties when it comes to the realty surrounding Central Park and the climbing Vincent does there. My apologies to the natives if I screwed up too badly.

The Sticking Place - Chapter Three

By Lydia Bower

Vincent wept, shaky with fear, adrenalin, and joy, the first time he scaled and reached the summit of The Dakota on Central Park West.

He'd judged a climb of around a hundred feet to be feasible, given what he'd already been able to accomplish Below. But he hadn't taken into account the almost paralyzing fear of being seen Above. And so his ascent hadn't been a smooth one, or as well-considered and swift as it should have been. But he'd finally made it, with no short-cuts (the draw of fire escapes, with their ladders and platforms, seemed to him a vulgar cheat) and only two practice runs, climbing halfway up on both occasions, just to be certain he could do it.

He'd spent the better part of six hours perched on a ledge and leaning one shoulder against a steeply angled roof, legs dangling, and gazing out into the park and at the magnificent city surrounding him. He was dazzled, breathless, and couldn't remember a time when he'd felt more at peace. He likely would've stayed longer if it hadn't occurred to him that he still had to get back down and then Below, before dawn. He'd gotten no sleep that night and had spent the entirety of the following day feeling as though he were floating through the tunnels instead of merely walking, and wrapped in that same warm and embracing sense of peace.

The following week Vincent met with a Helper and, handing over a treasured gold watch he'd found in the park when he was just a boy, had bartered it for a rare, turn of the century book on furniture and design. One evening as Cullen had been eating supper in the Commons, that same book had appeared on the carpenter's workshop table with an inscription reading simply:

**For your gift of unimaginable vistas.**

**Thank you.**

**Vincent**

He finally had to admit to himself, some few weeks later, that it wouldn't be possible to climb all the buildings he wished to. And so Vincent soon became confident enough to enter those buildings through utility tunnels and sub-basements instead, and from there to elevator shafts. On the whole, he found he much preferred to ascend that way: it was safer, left him much less exposed and, being swifter than climbing, gave him more time to absorb the delights of the city at night. He was soon familiar with several of the rooftops surrounding the park.

"The view from The Century is particularly fine," he was telling Cullen now as they sat around the workshop table, surrounded by varied planks and turned legs of pine that, once assembled, would become a new dining table for the Commons. His arms and shoulders ached pleasantly from the vigorous sanding he and Cullen had been giving the pieces before they'd taken a break. "And the roof area open enough that one can gain a full perspective from a single spot."

"Three-hundred-and-sixty degree thinking," Cullen offered, wiping his brow and poring water from a plastic bottle into his open, upturned mouth.

Vincent thought about that for a minute and nodded. "Yes, just so. Things become astonishingly clear … up there."

"That helping you out, you think?"

"Very much. You're a wise man, Cullen."

"I don't know about that. More a case of being there myself, about ten years back. I didn't go climbing any buildings, but I did figure out I loved working with my hands, making something beautiful out of pretty near next to nothing. Something to keep me sane. Every soul has its yearning."

"And every heart its voice."

"Yeah, that, too."

They lapsed into a companionable silence which Cullen broke some minutes later, after a quick, assessing glance Vincent felt more than saw. "Speaking of hearts … why no girlfriend?"

He immediately ducked his head, flushing at the frank question. A combination of embarrassment and shame quite effectively silenced him.

"I don't think it's because there's no interest," Cullen added. "And I've seen more than a few of the eligible young ladies down here eyeballing you. What, none of 'em float your boat, is that it?"

"'Float my boat?'" Vincent repeated dumbly. He hazarded a glance aside and saw the man's inquisitive expression. "Must we discuss this, Cullen?"

The response came quickly: "Not if you don't want to." But then he went on, adding, "Just curious about your take on the fairer sex, is all."

He was aware of Cullen's attentive silence then, and still couldn't seem to raise his head. Now would be about the time Father would start accusing him of hiding behind his unkempt hair and insisting he look at whomever he was conversing with. But Cullen wasn't Father. And it certainly wasn't a question Father would ever ask of him. Vincent found himself slowly relaxing into the easy, patient waiting he sensed.

"I find them," he eventually confessed quietly, as he studied his clasped hands, "endlessly fascinating. Complex. Dazzling to the senses. Contradictory. Enigmas wrapped in puzzles. And utterly … terrifying."

Cullen's response was a low snicker. "Yeah, that sounds about right."

An unexpected desire to speak his heart opened something locked tightly within Vincent and words began pouring from his mouth, almost without thought. "But a love such as that will never be possible for me, Cullen. I believed it was, once, but … I know better now. I cannot be what I am and ever hope for such a thing. And I cannot be other than what I am. And so it is not possible for me. Because I can never forget … what I am." He made himself meet the other man's eyes.

It was Cullen who broke the contact first, glancing away. And Vincent felt a flash of regret that wasn't his own, followed closely on its heels by a sympathy he found he couldn't abide.

"It's not like food or water, which one cannot live without," he found himself saying, not sure if it was justification or simply a need to explain himself that compelled him to elaborate. "Although it can feel like a sort of starvation, if one allows oneself to dwell on the deficient. It is difficult, Cullen, but I'm learning to accept my fate, to appreciate what life has to offer me, to be grateful and not think overmuch about my limitations. One is not defined by one's limits, but by how one chooses to adapt to them. And before you ask, yes, _that_ is original."

He returned Cullen's thoughtful smile and felt as though a burden had been lifted. He found it liberating to be able to speak so frankly without risking Cullen's opinion of him. The affection the man unconsciously offered him wasn't like Father's which, though more precious to him than breath itself, could sometime be fraught with expectations and worries; nor like that of the community's, which often felt oppressive with the weight of obligation. Cullen, too, held himself at a distance from those around him. And it seemed to Vincent it was that shared trait that constructed the bridge they'd found themselves able to build between them - and on its middle ground meet as friends.

"Well, you know what I always say, Vincent: never say never."

He ducked his head to hide his smile, admiring Cullen's gentle perseverance. "I'm not one to dispute the possibilities of miracles, even one such as that. Now, may we agree to leave it there and move on to something else?"

Cullen pushed off his stool and grabbed a table leg. Stepping away, he spread his feet wide, lifted the post to his shoulder, and gave it a hearty swing. "So, how 'bout them Yankees?"

Delighted into laughter, Vincent rose and clapped him on the shoulder. Reaching for the sanding block, he resumed his work.

**….**

It was barely two weeks later when the alarm came over the pipes, just as the sun was setting Above. Even though the distance from the excavation site to the hospital chamber was half again what it was from the park threshold, Vincent arrived only seconds after Winslow. The man was carrying a weeping child in his arms, Mary directly behind him.

Father was already there and waving Winslow toward one of the cots. "Yes, lay her down right here," he was saying briskly. "Mary, if you would be so good as to bring the lantern closer? Thank you. Now, this will likely be painful, my dear, but it must be done."

"What's happened?" Vincent asked, looking around Winslow's considerable girth and at the closest cot. The child lying upon it was ten-year-old Jamie. "I heard the emergency call come over the pipes."

"Damn crazy topsiders is what happened!" Winslow shouted as Vincent edged around him. Jamie gave a sharp yelp of pain and buried her face in Mary's shoulder as Father slowly eased the boot from her left foot. "Somebody's up there taking pot-shots. Damn sniper or something. Up on some roof. Had a group of our kids in the park, over by the path - you know the one? - when all of a sudden I start hearing shots. Looked over and saw some guy go down not more than three hundred feet from where we stood. Damn near blew his head off! So I hollered at the kids and we took off running for the threshold. Jamie got tripped up on some roots and took a tumble. Twisted her ankle up pretty good, maybe even broke it. Damn crazy topsiders, all of 'em!"

Vincent slid in next to Father and grasped Jamie's hand in his. He stiffened at the initial surge of terror and pain coming from the girl and then forced himself to relax and allow it move through him. He couldn't take away her discomfort, but he could ease it somewhat by sharing it with her. "Don't be frightened, Jamie. You're safe now. Father will take good care of you."

Her face twisted with a fresh jolt of pain and she whimpered as Father pulled the sock off her foot and began gently palpating her ankle. Vincent turned to Winslow.

"Were you seen entering the threshold?"

"I don't know - I was too busy trying to keep us from getting picked off! I don't think so. Last I saw, everybody up there was diving for cover."

Vincent was already calculating whether it would be faster to secure the park entrance himself or send a sentry to do it. "Do you know from which direction the shots came?"

Winslow looked at him like he'd sprouted a third eye. "How the hell should I know? And I wasn't sticking around long enough to find out, either. What kind of question is that, anyway?"

He released Jamie's hand and came around the cot. "When you heard the shots, which direction were you facing? Which way did you turn when you heard them? Think, Winslow!" Vincent wasn't sure if it was his words or the tone of command that alerted Father and Mary. But he was aware of the sudden shifting of their attention away from Jamie and toward him.

"Vincent?"

He couldn't attend to Father's request for his notice: there were too many thoughts whirling in his head; too many heated, rushing emotions, too many fragmented scraps of knowledge shifting and locking together, missing only a single piece. He returned Winslow's glare with a steady look of his own and watched as the man squeezed his eyes shut, opening them a few seconds later.

"It was southwest. They came from the southwest."

Vincent closed his hand around the big man's upper arm. "Are you certain?"

"As certain as I can be." Winslow's expression changed and he gave him a sidewise look. "Why? What notion you got in that head of yours, boy?"

"I think I know where the shooter is."

"What you say?"

"Vincent!" Father's strident tone eclipsed Winslow's incredulous one and he finally redirected his gaze, taking in Father's rigid features. "This is not our concern! Let the authorities Above deal with it."

He dipped his head, but only to look at Jamie again, her eyes still wide with pain, tears streaking her face, ankle horribly swollen and already beginning to bruise. He studied her long enough that when he looked back up, he saw the growing recognition in Father's eyes. "It is our concern. The one responsible for this has made it so," he flatly announced.

"Vincent, you can't! It's barely twilight! Not to mention the sniper is up there. This is insanity: you can't go Above!"

He was already turning toward the doorway and the Long Hall beyond when Winslow stopped him with an arm thrown up in his path. "Listen to Father. You're not thinking right. Ain't nothing you can do."

Vincent easily pushed Winslow's arm aside, telling him as he strode to the door hole, "Get word to Franklin. Have him throw the master lock at the park threshold. Where I'm going can be reached from within the tunnels. I have no intention of going Above. Not until I'm there."

"And where exactly is 'there?'" Winslow demanded.

"The roof of the Kenilworth building. Now send word to Franklin."

He hit the Long Hall and broke into a full-out run, long strides eating up the distance between himself and his destination, Father's shouts fading away behind him.

**….**


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: I hope to finish this up in one more chapter, but I'm not making any promises. It all depends on how chatty the muse becomes. This chapter contains violent content.

The Sticking Place - Chapter Four

by Lydia Bower

It was with a horrible sense of déjà vu that Vincent gained the roof of the Kenilworth and made his way slowly, silently, toward the façade of the building, his back pressed against the wall of the enclosure that housed the stairwell and the door opening onto the roof. There'd been no thought to which turns he'd needed to take, or which cross-tunnels; the various levels to be navigated in order to get him here. The choices had been nothing more than bodily memory, which was enough - and all he'd had. For every thought in Vincent's head had been turned inward, and distilled to its essence.

He'd known something was amiss the previous evening. He'd felt yet. And yet had done nothing.

Last night, at almost the same time, he'd been on this roof and been startled when, coming around the side of the enclosure, he'd found he wasn't alone. Several yards away, at the edge of the roofline and with his back to him, had been a man staring out into the park below. Next to him had been a tripod, hip-high and thin-legged. A long black satchel was at his feet.

Vincent had spun and pressed his back against the wall of the enclosure, his heart in his throat. His first impulse had been to flee, but then he'd heard a sharp sound, like a twig being snapped. Carefully, he'd peered around the corner and watched as the man finished folding the legs of the tripod, slapping the last two into place with similar vehemence.

As the man had squatted and shoved the tripod into the bag, Vincent had caught a brief glimpse of his profile and instantly recognized the features as Ameri-Indian; a fact which helped explain the man's sleek curtain of black hair, falling well below his shoulder blades.

He'd been dressed in blue jeans and a faded denim jacket over a dark t-shirt, heavy black boots on his feet. And was painfully thin; the tendons in his long-fingered hands noticeable even from a distance. Vincent had swiftly ducked back around the corner as the man had gone still and then slowly turned his head in the direction of the enclosure.

With his back once more against the wall, he'd drawn a deep breath and held it, squeezing his eyes shut for the smallest moment and reaching outward, opening his senses wide. All his senses.

As his eyes had fluttered open he'd felt, layered with the stranger's sudden attentiveness to his surroundings, something darker and full of a despairing resolve – so acute it seemed like a sickness. Something feverish, as from a flu, but not precisely that, either. Something that'd made his head pound and goose bumps rise on his flesh. A soundless voice had begun to seep into his veins and stream through his blood, singing in discordant tones his senses had instinctively labored to put right but couldn't. And that fact had made him inexplicably angry, wishing more than anything that it would cease. But there'd been nothing he could do to stop it.

_Ah, but you're wrong: there is_, he remembered thinking only a moment later, and with frightening clarity. _I can make the singing stop. The … madness … stop. There are ways. And I am the means._

In the next breath he'd found himself slipping away from the shelter of the enclosure. But not toward the man: away, instead. And to the larger, more distant shelter of an enormous ventilation unit on the other side of the roof. From there, he'd waited several minutes after the man had taken leave by way of the stairwell to make his own escape to the elevator shaft and then Below - dazed, breathing heavily, and not at all interested in returning to the Hub and those he lived among.

He'd been shaken by the thoughts that'd compelled his retreat; chilled to the bone by the simple and sudden decision to do murder. Because that was precisely what he'd contemplated, and the idea hadn't wholly been his own. The darkness which he'd fought and barely caged, after Lisa had been sent Above, had whispered sibilant, goading encouragements in his mind. And that was not to be allowed.

One thing, to throw up doors and bar passageways against the occasional intruder Below; a city workman or a drug-addled street person come too close to the edge of the tunnel community's safe places. That was, after all, part and parcel of his responsibility as council member and in charge of security. Acceptable as well were those times when he resorted to making certain … sounds to frighten off intruders. Which moments invariably left him feeling oddly dissatisfied – as if it hadn't been enough to simply do that; and his body - the energy built up within and ready to explode into something more - urging he continue, while the rational side shouted a warning to pull back. One he knew he must heed and had always done so.

But not now.

Not as Vincent reached the corner of the enclosure and heard the increasingly loud shriek of police sirens far below him, and then the unmistakable sharp report of a weapon being fired close by. He smelled the acrid burn of gunpowder and heard fresh screams coming faintly from the park.

No, there would be no heeding that call for caution, for denial, this time. Because the man he'd seen and was certain he'd again find at the roofline, was no innocent. Not one, Vincent had rationalized last night, who must have been there for another reason. A photographer, perhaps. Or an architect, seeking a certain perspective the rooftop could give him. And the tripod surely had been for a camera or surveying equipment, not a rifle – and likely one the man had stuffed away in the duffel bag before he'd arrived and almost been discovered.

He realized now that he'd witnessed what must have been a trial run – much like he would make before fully committing to any new and daunting task. Trying out the separate skills; taking the proper steps to assure readiness for what lie ahead. Gaining the intent and the focus necessary to take the final step, the one from which there could be no turning back. Gathering the daring required to do the thing.

Vincent knew this. And recalled Lady Macbeth's admonition as he stepped around the corner and saw the man crouched at the edge of the roof, rifle butt snugged against his shoulder, taking aim with deadly intention: _But_ s_crew your courage to the sticking place, and you'll not fail._

The next several seconds were to him as though time had slowed in contrast to his actions, which were fluid and swift. He closed most of the distance between them in the blink of an eye, and a low snarl curled his cleft lip. He heard himself speak.

"Stop this."

The sniper's head twisted as his body came out of the crouch he'd taken, the rifle still in his hands as he stood and faced Vincent. There was a split-second of thoughtless acknowledgement on both their parts before the man's dark eyes grew wide.

And then it came. The feeling Vincent knew well: the shock the man felt at seeing what stood before him: hulking, massive, and with inhuman features. It was wholly familiar to him, the fact of what the man felt. He'd lost count of the times he'd faced it, known it. No judicious warning given to new members of the community could fully prepare one for their first sight of him.

His only thought at those times was to do nothing that could be construed as threatening; to move slowly and speak softly. Show compassion and be only what was good and gentle and civilized – what was acceptable. But it was untamed, what faced the man in this moment, and he warned again, "Stop this. Now."

Their eyes locked and for a moment Vincent saw himself reflected there, in the alarmed eyes. There was an instantaneous threading of dual desires within him: his own and those of this man he faced; dark cravings, the need to destroy simply because one wanted to. And could.

He recognized the desire and it filled him with a senseless rage. Not only toward this man and for the injury he'd caused Jamie to suffer - and to the numberless and faceless in the park, killed or wounded - but himself as well. For sharing those needs, understanding them so well. And because he could not, would never again, strike out at himself for those most feral and shameful of desires, he struck the man instead.

A quick bat of his left hand knocked the rifle away from the sniper and cut open the flesh along one of his arms. The sweet and coppery scent of blood flooded Vincent's nostrils at the same time the rifle clattered to the ground, and his vision was suddenly tinged with a shade the same as the spilled blood, closing in on all sides and blurring everything but the man standing before him.

Then the sniper took a step back, and another, his eyes fixed on his attacker, his hand gripping his wounded forearm, face creased with pain. As he began to take a third, one foot already lifted and poised to land, Vincent saw that it would bring him to the roof's edge, and that the ledge was far too low and narrow to prevent a fourth step that would inevitably tumble him over the side.

Growling, "No," he lunged, and in one motion reached with his left hand and caught the front of the man's jacket, pulling him away from edge and directly into the path of the thoughtless, powerful roundhouse blow his right arm delivered. Outspread, his claws dug deep into the flesh of the man's throat and slid through it with the ease of sharp scissors through gauze.

He blinked against the warm spray that covered his face and stung his eyes, letting go of his hold on the jacket. The sniper crumpled at his feet, his life pumping from the horrible wound and puddling in a wide circle around his head.

It was he who backed away now, shaking his head violently, trying to throw off the vestiges of the final, irrevocable sharing of emotion that'd come with the man's death. For Vincent had felt it all: his own exultation and the sniper's dim surprise and wonder; the flash of terrible pain cut short by welcome numbness. The brief seconds in which he had been both murderer and murdered; had felt the man's life in its last moments and the grotesquely intimate connection his actions had forged between them.

Dully, he stared down at his hands in the quickening nightfall, half-expecting to see them smoke. But they didn't. Instead, the sight of the blood upon them, already beginning to cool, filled his veins with ice. He struggled to pull in a deep breath, and when he managed it, was overwhelmed by the scent of the man's lifeblood.

He twisted to the side and was violently sick, bent double and racked with deep spasms that felt to him as though they began in the soles of his feet and shuddered their way all through him. When finally the sickness passed and he could stand straight again, he looked once more at the man he'd slaughtered and swiped an arm across his mouth, meaning to rid himself of the foul taste of his stomach's contents. But the sleeve of his cloak bore the blood of the man, and that was even worse. He spat away the taste as best he could. Tears of shame and horrified realization blurred his vision.

Vincent turned and fled as though the devil himself was giving chase.

**….**

He did not turn toward the Hub when he was safely below ground. He went south instead, and then easterly, moving ever downward, avoiding the most heavily traveled sections of tunnels. Instinct and a necessary need for isolation drove him toward the nameless river that ran far below the Catacombs. It was only when he reached the barely candled outermost tunnels nearest the Ripley branches and caught the faint clattering of pipes that he slowed his pace to a walk and then to a lurching stop. Struck by the sense he'd forgotten something, he braced an arm against the tunnel wall and hung his head, gulping in mouthfuls of air and squeezing his eyes shut, fighting the awful sense of spinning that clouded his mind.

And then it occurred to him and he squatted and frantically slid a hand across the dirt floor for a rock or a chunk of concrete - anything. His fingers brushed against a stone barely the size of his palm and he snatched it up and went in search of the nearest pipe. Finding one close by, he forced himself to take a deep breath and _Think, damn it!_ before lifting the stone and tapping out a message.

It was terse, even for him. He had returned Below and would be beyond the call of the pipes until the following day. After a slight hesitation he tapped out an _All's well_ and finished the communication as he'd begun it: with his name. He found that composing the message had cleared away some of the fog and he reached another decision. Within minutes he found himself at the cross tunnel that would lead to the storeroom for these lower branches. Stopping again just outside the crossing, Vincent waited, senses stretching out all around him like gossamer fingers. Sensing no one close by, he made the corner and sprinted for the storeroom door.

Once inside, his eyes swept the room. He spied and quickly gathered what he'd come for: a nearly-full lantern, a wide bristle brush, a stack of threadbare, patched blankets, and a bar of homemade lye soap. He filled an empty canteen from a spigot set into a fresh water pipe and was halfway out the door when he came to a sudden stop and turned back. Emptying his hands, he reached for the clipboard hanging from the side of one of the crude shelves that lined the walls of the chamber. It was with a sense of the deeply surreal that Vincent took up the pencil attached to the clipboard by a string and dutifully noted what he'd taken.

Those were the rules, after all. And rules and laws were what made a society civilized. It was the difference between man and the lesser beings: those who roamed on four legs or wore fur and fangs; the difference between who he was and what he'd done on that rooftop. He was still a part of the community, wasn't he? And so bound by its laws.

_But who here_, he thought as he hung the clipboard back in its place and collected his bounty, _could hold me to them, if I were to choose otherwise? And who would dare call me to account, knowing what I am? It is only the most fragile of chains that bind me. Not even chains, but merely threads, and those easily broken. What I've done has proven that. _

He had taken it upon himself to deliver a swift and final punishment. Had declared himself judge and executioner and had done it with barely a thought of whether he even had the right. Vincent shoved the notion away and left the inhabited tunnels, seeking only solitude and silence. The answers, were there any to be found, would have to come later.

Once he reached the river, after some three hours of travel, Vincent dumped his load by the shallow bank, put a match to the lantern, and began emptying his pockets. Candles stubs and matches were tossed onto the pile of blankets; a white handkerchief fluttered down to cover them; a pencil stub. He dug deeper in the pocket of his pants and pulled out the crumpled note Michael had left in his chamber after this morning's mathematics class. In it, he'd offered to tutor young Stephen, who'd been having some problems with long division. The note had been a way of allowing Vincent to broach the subject with the boy if he chose to, sparing Stephen any embarrassment he might've faced had Michael suggested it during class.

His eyes stung with hot tears and he carefully laid the note down among the other items. Folding onto the flat stone bank, he pulled off his soft boots and then the rest of his clothes, tossing them to the side with little care of where they landed. Then he stood, and flexing up on his toes, launched himself into the icy, turbulent waters of the river. He cut into its surface like a knife and swam underwater all the way to the other side on the single breath he'd taken before diving in. Surfacing, his thick mane plastered to his head, he took another breath against the biting cold that surrounded him and slipped back under. Reaching the opposite side, he walked up far enough to grab the brush and then waded back in until the water reached the middle of his chest. And then he scrubbed himself from head to toe, the stiff bristles reaching under the fur and to tender skin. And then gaining the bank again, he tossed the brush onto the shore and grabbed the soap. He washed thoroughly and dove back under to rinse off, surfacing only to repeat the process, until he was certain he'd washed away all the blood. The strong currents of water swept the soapy foam away and downriver and Vincent stood and watched it for an unnoticed time, shivering deeply with cold, his skin burning from the caustic effects of brush and soap.

When he finally stepped onto the shore, he used one of the blankets to dry himself as best he could and wring the wet from his heavy mane. Then he wrapped himself in the remaining blankets and set about washing the blood from his clothes. The meager light of the lantern helped, but Vincent was certain he wouldn't be able to get it all. There would be some trace remaining when he slipped them back on again, clothing himself in civility, and rejoining his community. Some certain sign that would mark him as the killer he was now - and forever would be. He was barely aware of the sudden fits of weeping that overtook him as he scrubbed at his garments, too lost in his shame to take note or even care.

The task completed, Vincent draped his clothing over several large boulders a short way up from the bank and then collected two armloads of firewood he kept stored in a nearby niche in the cavern wall. Arranging it close to the boulders, he extinguished the lantern and poured a small amount of oil on the piled wood and started a fire. Huddled under the blankets, arms and legs pulled close, he stared at the flames and soon fell into a trance where there was no pain, no thought, only the heat from the fire and a mindless drifting that carried him far away from where he was, who he was, and what he'd done.

**….**


	5. Chapter 5

Author's notes can be found at the conclusion of this final chapter.

The Sticking Place – Chapter Five

By Lydia Bower

**...**

It was early evening of the following day when Vincent approached the outer perimeter of the Hub and signaled his return on the pipes. It was no surprise to him that a message came shortly after the usual acknowledgement, conveying that Father was in the study and most anxious to see him.

He took his time getting there, automatically rebuilding inner barriers to stem the growing tide of varied, ambient emotions - part and parcel of being amongst the community again. As he made his way closer to the inner circle he was aware of other messages being sent, some of which included his name, though none directed at him. He forced himself to close his ears to them, much as he'd closed himself. The prospect of what he would face when he reached Father's study was daunting enough; he wasn't prepared to consider what else might be waiting for him.

He'd timed his return correctly: most everyone was gathered in the Commons for the evening meal. His stomach growled in sympathy; it'd been well over a day since he'd eaten. But he found the idea of trying to choke down food past the lump in his throat wholly unappealing. It wasn't like he would starve; he'd gone longer on nothing but water before, but the thought of a mug of hot, sweet tea set his mouth watering. And so he headed straight for the sideboard when he reached the study, and the kettle sitting full and waiting there, setting a match to the gas ring below it and filling the infuser with loose tea leaves from a tin box. Father wasn't at his desk, but Vincent knew he was within the chamber: he could feel it when Father realized he was no longer alone.

"Vincent?"

"Down here," he replied. There was no need to glance up in the direction from which his name had come. He could hear Father's swift but ungainly descent from the balcony down the spiral staircase.

"Oh, thank God," Father exclaimed as he came up behind him. "I've been worried sick. Turn around please, Vincent, let me look at you. Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," he said automatically, and turned from the sideboard to face him. He stood silently and endured the jolts of worry emanating from Father as his eyes did a hurried but thorough inspection. It was worse when Father grasped his arms; for he was certain that was when he'd feel what lay beneath the worry. Surely there would be horror there, and anger; disgust at what he'd done. Perhaps even fear. But Vincent felt none of those things, only deep concern and vexation at being forced to suffer that distress.

"Where on earth have you been?" Father demanded, keeping hold of one arm as Vincent allowed himself to be towed to a chair at the table.

As he obediently took a seat he thought _Perhaps he doesn't know yet, what it is I've done. Perhaps none of them do._ And then couldn't decide if such a reprieve was something he wanted and should be glad of, or not. It would be better, wouldn't it, to have it all out in the open so he could begin to try to make amends, to do whatever needed to be done so he could be accepted into the community and his father's good graces again?

Now faced with an expectant look across the table, Vincent remembered the question and answered, "I was below the Catacombs. At the river. I needed … to collect my thoughts. I'm sorry if I worried you, Father. It won't happen again."

"Pardon me for saying so, Vincent, but that's a refrain I've heard before - on numerous occasions. While I understand your need for solitude and have been most happy to grant you that when necessary, is it too much to expect an explanation beyond the vague message you sent when you returned last night? Surely you knew I'd be worried."

_What would you have had me say? _he thought. _That I'd just ripped out a man's throat and needed some time to come to terms with it? _

But all he said was, "I'm sorry." Suddenly (and again) it was all too much. Vincent propped his forehead on his open hands and struggled to keep at bay the fresh tears threatening to overwhelm him, as they had at the river. He was startled to feel Father's hand come down on his shoulder. He hadn't even noticed him getting back up from the table.

"Very well," Father was saying. "I shan't press you any more about it this evening. I can see you're in no shape for it. Have you eaten at all?" Vincent slowly shook his head, too tired to lift it from his hands. "Shall I send for a tray to be brought up?"

"No, thank you. Just tea."

The kettle took that moment to begin whistling and Father wheeled away and got busy with the work of dropping the infuser into it and gathering mugs and spoons and the honey pot and putting them on the table. Presently Vincent dropped his hands and settled them in his lap, gazing distractedly around the study, trying to decide what, if anything, he should say now.

It was then that Father, his back to him and busily dunking the infuser in and out of the steaming kettle, said, "Today's edition of the newspaper is on my desk. The article concerning the sniper doesn't contain much information, but it's there if you'd like to read it."

He flinched and, heart pounding, found his eyes drawn immediately to the desk and then back to Father. _So … he __**does**__ know_, he thought with a sense of relief. _He's not going to make me tell him; he already knows. And accepts it, _he realized, _with no recriminations, no feelings of horror. How can this be?_

And what he said in response to Father was, "I don't need to read it. I know what happened: I was there."

"Yes, of course. I only thought …" Father trailed off and finally turned to face him. And he found it easier than he'd imagined: meeting and holding his father's level gaze. "In truth, Vincent, I'm not sure what to think. Five people are dead because of this man, and two more are fighting for their lives as we speak. There's no telling how many more might have died or been injured, had you not intervened. I don't believe anyone could, in good conscience, fault you for what you did. But I fear for what the cost to you might be."

"So do I," he whispered, looking away, no longer able to abide the sympathy and concern in Father's eyes.

"Well, when you're ready to talk about it …"

"Yes. Thank you, Father. Perhaps if we could just share a cup of tea, sit quietly in each other's company. Then I'd like to go to my chamber. I find I'm very weary just now."

"Then that's what we shall do," Father proclaimed, setting a mug of tea in front of him. He felt a kiss pressed to the top of his head and watched as Father limped toward the desk with his own mug in hand. Purposefully and quite conspicuously shoving the newspaper away in a drawer, Father pulled a stack of papers in front of him and put on his glasses, sipping tea and making notes, taking Vincent at his word. A fact which he found oddly disconcerting, though he couldn't say why - only that it was so.

Though he tried to mirror Father's attempt at normality, he grew steadily more uncomfortable and quickly finished his tea, bidding Father good night and escaping to the comfort of his chamber and his bed, where he fell immediately into a deep and dreamless sleep.

**….**

It took less than twenty-four hours before Vincent was certain he was going to come apart at the seams - or, conversely, to implode. Either would be preferable to the unending maelstrom of disconnectedness between what he felt, within, and what came from without as he attempted to take up his life as it had been before the rooftop. His apologies for missing the previous day's classes had been met by his student's assertions of his newest status as hero for the measures he'd taken, and insistent calls for a retelling of the event in as much detail as he was willing to give – which was none. Thwarted in their cheerful attempts, the children had left his chamber with long faces and he'd keenly felt their disappointment, even though he could not imagine why they would want to know such awful things. The adults had been more subtle, though no less anxious in their desire to praise his actions, to reassure him that he'd done the right thing, and it'd been for the greater good.

Vincent had no idea how the news had spread so quickly, nor where it had originated. Surely not with Father, who had circumspection down to a science. Being privy to most everything that happened Below, Father had learned early on to keep his own counsel about any issue that didn't directly affect the community at large. Unfortunately they suffered the same fate as many small, isolated societies, where the price one paid for the familiarity of those one lived amongst was the tendency toward gossip and a certain lack of privacy. It had never really bothered Vincent before – in fact it seemed only equitable that he should have few outward secrets from those he lived among, since his empathic gifts assured that there was very little any of them could hide from him – whether he wanted that knowledge or not.

But he had never killed before, either. And he found the fact of that fundamental change trickling down to effect the way he felt about everything else. He wanted nothing more than to be left alone with what were apparently his solitary feelings of guilt, shame, and horror. And his friends and family - save Father - seemed determined to make certain he spent no more than a few minutes at a time by himself. He spent the better part of that afternoon mouthing apologies and creating excuses to be somewhere other than where he found himself: once again being dragged into a conversation he absolutely didn't want to have.

Now bearing the added guilt of not doing his fair share of labor at the excavation site (this time escaping Old Sam's callus inquiries and Kanin's quiet but equally unnerving study) he concocted the excuse of checking the Lower Ripley branches for any fresh flooding and found himself taking the steps of the Long Stair in incautious leaps and bounds, aware of the danger of the gaping maw of the Abyss just to his right, but as sure on his feet as he had ever been.

Vincent stopped short when he reached the wide, level landing that served as a sort of foyer to the Great Hall. Absently brushing wind-swept chunks of mane away from his face, he peered up at the massive double doors, secured by a large plank of wood, and changed his mind about venturing any further. There was no real threat of flooding in Lower Ripley, and the relative silence he would find within the Great Hall, with its colorful tapestries and ever-present echoes of memories both painful and joyous, called out to him. Hesitating only a moment, he lifted the plank, leaning it against the wall to the side, and pushed open the heavy doors just enough to slip through. And there, within, he found Cullen repairing one of the huge wooden chandeliers.

Almost, Vincent stepped back to leave as quickly as he'd entered, struck by an abrupt, panicked desire to avoid the man – one of the few friends he hadn't encountered since the business with the sniper. But then Cullen looked up and barked, "Shut those damn doors, would you? I'm gonna lose my light here."

Vincent hurriedly pushed them closed as the wind whistled through the gap and tugged at the flames of the torches Cullen had lit closest to the table where the chandelier rested.

"Father send you down?" Cullen asked, head bowed and back at his work. "I told him I could handle it."

"No, no one sent me. I was on my way to -" Vincent cut short his explanation and moved closer to the table as Cullen struggled to work loose a rivet from one of the iron straps joining the curved sections that made up the circle of the chandelier. "Do you need help?"

"What did I just say?"

Vincent held his tongue, taken aback by Cullen's uncharacteristically impatient tone. Several seconds passed before Cullen glanced up at him, giving him a quick flick of the eye. "Well, what are you waiting for? You want to help? Get over here." As Vincent stepped to the table he explained, "These rivets aren't big as they should be to bear the load. See how the wood is starting to split? I need to replace them, but the sections have loosened up and keep slipping on me. If you could brace- Yeah, just like that. Now hold 'em tight while I pull these babies loose."

Two sets of hands made the work go faster and soon Cullen was replacing the first set of rivets and squeezing liberal amounts of carpenter's glue into the minute cracks in the wood and smearing it across their surface with nimble fingers. They worked in silence, Vincent aware of his friend's sullenness but hesitant to say anything, not sure of the cause. Sometimes it was best to just leave matters as they were when someone was in a foul mood. Sometimes the kindest thing to do was let it run its course. After all, people were as entitled to be unhappy as they were to be glad.

They'd started on the second set of fastenings when Cullen suddenly said, "I heard about what happened the other night."

"Is there anyone who hasn't?" he responded dryly.

"Word travels fast around here; you know that."

Another rivet was pulled and replaced before Vincent found the courage to say any more. Mouth suddenly dry, he inquired softly, "Tell me what you think."

Without looking up and with little pause, Cullen answered, "I think Winslow should've tried harder to keep you Below. Seeing as he's the only one big enough to handle you." And as those words were sinking in added, "You're not gonna make a habit of that, are you, what you did to that guy?"

He was so unprepared for the question that he let go of the section of chandelier he'd been bracing. He found himself staring at his friend, who took his time setting aside pliers before straightening and meeting his stunned gaze.

"Don't look at me like that. It's a legitimate question, Vincent. We both know you had no business going after that sniper."

"Jamie –"

"Has a sprained ankle and is already hobbling around on crutches. In two weeks she'll be good as new. And don't try to hand me some bullshit line about how what you did falls under the category of security and protecting the tunnels. You went after him because you wanted to."

Mouth opening to rebuke the blunt statement, he changed his mind and pulled it tight instead, dropping his eyes. Anything he might have said would've been a lie, for Cullen was right. And had only put into words what he'd known and felt all along. And with them had given him what, until now, he'd been unable to find within the community: someone who mirrored his sense of disgust at what he'd done.

"What's been done can't be undone," Cullen went on, as though he'd read his very thoughts. "You crossed a line that night, and I think we both know why."

There was long silence before Vincent whispered haltingly, "The shaken soda bottle."

"The shaken soda bottle," Cullen confirmed. "And what did I tell you then? It's pure –"

"Physics," he finished.

"I hoped the climbing might take the edge off the worst of it – that's why I suggested it. But even then I knew it was nothing more than a stop-gap. Because I was wrong, Vincent: you're not like the rest of us. You're different in ways I can't even begin to fathom. All I know is you need to figure out how you're gonna deal with it - and sooner rather than later. Because until you get a handle on it …"

Vincent shut his eyes against the pain of Cullen's blunt declaration of his differentness, his utter aloneness. Even after a lifetime of knowing it and trying to come to terms with it, hearing it put in such naked language still wounded him deeply. But it was the truth, and no more than he deserved. "I should have let him fall," he surprised himself by admitting, hanging his head in abject shame.

"I'm sorry, what's that?"

"The sniper." Struck by an urgent need to move, he pushed away from the table and began pacing in large, irregular loops, his hands fisted at his sides. "When I approached him on the rooftop, I caught him unawares. He turned and I knocked the weapon from his hands. And he started to back away, to flee. But he was already so close to the roof's edge, another step would've sent him over. I saw him begin to take that step and knew what would happen and I … I reached out and pulled him from the edge. I should've let him fall."

"Why didn't you?"

Vincent stopped and swung to face Cullen. "Because it wouldn't have been enough. I needed to be the cause of his death, to punish him for what he'd done. Simply because I _wanted_ to. And so … I did. But who, now, will punish _me_? Who Below will call me to account for my actions? Not Father: who it seems has found a way to rationalize what I've done; who cares to hear none of the details, despite what he may say, only the results, and so can accept my act of murder as something necessary, instead of the bloodthirstiness it truly was. Nor any of the other adults, who have somehow convinced themselves of the same lie. Even the children - the _children_, Cullen! – have now named me as some kind of hero."

He was shaking all over and folded gracelessly onto a bench, afraid his legs wouldn't be able to hold him up for much longer. And having begun his confession, knew that he had to finish it - to purge himself of all of it. Elbows on knees, arms hanging between them, he looked up at Cullen with eyes that burned with tears of bitter self-loathing.

"Do you know what occurred to me, as I struck out at him and tore open his throat? I thought, finally, that I had found work I was fit for, and worthy of. And was glad of it, even as the knowledge sickened me. I don't know how I am to live with that."

There was no sound, save that of the wind howling to be let in and the liquid-like sputtering of the torches' flames as they burned. Cullen studied him for a long while, with what felt like a strangely neutral attention. Then he sighed and scrubbed his face with both hands.

"I don't have any answers for you, my friend. Sorry, but this is way beyond my ken. You're going to have to figure it out for yourself. But I'll tell you one thing: I was right about part of it. You _do_ have a good heart, despite whatever else might be going on with you. The way you're struggling with this proves that. I got no answers, but I do have some advice, if you wanna hear it."

It seemed he was incapable of speech, choked by his tears, so he merely lifted an open hand in a gesture of permission.

"Next time you're faced with a situation like the other night – and make no mistake about it: it's going to happen again – you better make damn sure that whatever you end up doing, you're doing it for the right reasons and because there's no other choice. Otherwise it's gonna keep eating away at what's good in you, until there's nothing left but what you felt on that rooftop. And then you're going to be in real trouble. And so will the rest of us, down here. Now, you gonna help me finish this up or you just going to sit there like a bump on a log?"

He looked up and found the gentle hint of a smile on Cullen's face. Beyond the point of being able to feel anything but his own turmoil, he took the smile at face value and accepted it as the beginning of a forgiveness and an acceptance he so longed for. Wiping his eyes dry with the heels of his hands, he pushed up off the bench and wearily joined Cullen at the table to finish what they'd begun.

They parted ways not long afterward, Cullen offering his hand to clasp and receiving instead a quick, hard embrace. Vincent watched him climb the stairway at the inner wall of the Great Hall, torch in one hand and tools in the other, and disappear through the upper passageway into the tunnels. Then he dragged one of the high-backed heavy chairs to the center of the chamber and settled himself there, facing the tapestries. As his eyes moved over them, studying their rich colors and the scenes of lives lived in the imagination of their weavers, he recalled how, as a boy, he had wished he could step into them and live a life not his own, in magical and far-off places.

But that was never going to happen. He had put away that dream a long time ago, as he had so many others in his twenty-three years, discovering as he grew up that even the simplest of dreams were not possible for him. There was only this life and this place – there could be no other.

It occurred to him, as he sat there, that even though his mind had accepted the limitations long ago, his heart truly never had – not until now. He was what he was, and nothing could ever change that. He would never know a life lived Above, nor the freedom of choice that came so easily to those who were not like him, who were safe in their similarities. He would never experience the tender love of a woman, or the pride and joy that would come from having children of his own and watching them grow and flourish, surrounded by that same love. The most he could hope for was to experience those emotions through others, at the necessary distance his differences required. _And that_, he thought, _will have to be enough_. Because it was all there was and ever could be, for him. Vincent knew no matter what happened now, what he'd done on that rooftop proved beyond the shadow of a doubt that he would be irrevocably, and forever, alone.

**….**

Author's notes: This tale is the result of many seeds planted throughout the years. The first was several stories contained within Nan Dibble's _Acquainted With the Night _series, dealing with Vincent in his youth. And then were two short paragraphs in her story _As On a Darkling Plain_, also in the AWN series, briefly sketching a description of the events of Vincent's first killing. Reading that for the first time many years ago, I always wanted to know more – the complete story. And since Nan is no longer with us, I realized I'd have to expand on it myself.

Also serving as inspiration this time around was Kuliundheft's _For No Miser's Sake_, the final push I needed to start my "Vincent before Catherine" tale. Finally I have to credit George R.R. Martin for his idea for the character of Cullen, who appeared in the episode _Fever_. GRRM has a fabulous gift for imagining one-shot characters that remain indelibly in our hearts and minds long after they've disappeared from our television screens. Cullen's line to Vincent in that episode, "What are you gonna do … kill me?" still haunts me almost twenty-five years later. There was something about the way he said it, and his body language, that spoke of a long and interesting relationship between the two that I've wanted to explore for quite some time. I hope I've managed to do it in a way that's entertained and perhaps enlightened my readers. As always, thanks for coming along for the ride. Until the next time …

Lydia


End file.
